


Wear Your Colors

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Blushing, Case Fic, Cuddling, Fandom Loves Puerto Rico, First Time, Flirting, M/M, Makeover, Ogling, Undercover as a Couple, nominally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 14:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15220892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: A tough case forces Fraser to wear low-rise jeans and pretend he and Ray are a couple. *woe*





	Wear Your Colors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ride_Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/gifts), [squidgie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/gifts).



> Beta by Ride_Forever! Thank you kindly.
> 
> Many thanks to Ride_Forever and squidgie, both for their [incredible generosity](https://fandomlovespuertorico.dreamwidth.org/3482.html?thread=257434#cmt257434) in their joint bid to Fandom Loves Puerto Rico's Real-Time Recovery Fund, and for their amazing patience when I choked at creating a story worthy of such a bid and prompt! Thanks, guys.

The tempting peach fuzz at the back of Ray Kowalski's neck shimmered radiantly under the fluorescent lights as he repeatedly mashed his forehead against the computer keyboard. 

"Ray. Ray. Ray! Please, stop that." 

Ray groaned. "It's no use, Fraser," he said. "I can't dig up any priors on this guy, and he's got no known associates. Sure, he's an accountant for a D'Amato family business, but I can't figure what he did personally to D'Amato, Jr., or why Jimmy's already roughed up two people trying to find him." 

"Well, wherever the answers are, Ray, I doubt they lie between the keys of your keyboard." 

"You got that right." Ray spun in his chair and scrubbed at his face. "Nothing there but lousy crumbs."

"Perhaps we're going about this the wrong way; if Mr. Samuel Jackson isn't a criminal, maybe he didn't do anything to D'Amato at all."

Ray scrunched his nose entertainingly at hearing the fellow's name; for some reason he found it endlessly funny. "Like, maybe D'Amato wants something from Jackson? Enough to make Organized Crime get their boxers in a wad and hand me this headache?"

"Or wanted to stop Jackson from doing something; that's always a possibility." 

"Okay. Okay, wow, that opens things up." Ray bounced to his feet, earlier despondency forgotten, and Fraser smiled to himself. "Let's hit the streets, Frase."

"Pound the pavement?"

"Make tracks," Ray said, flashing him a smile as they headed out, shoulder to shoulder.

:::

"Mikey! Hey, Mikey. How ya doin'?" 

"Hey, if it ain't Ray Grabowski." This Mikey, a rotund, pale fellow with bushy black eyebrows, slouched a little deeper in a Barcalounger that had seen better days. The fact it was nestled in a pile of junk on a Chicago street corner no doubt contributed to its present state. Diefenbaker sniffed at the torn vinyl of the footrest and made a disparaging remark.

"Actually, it's 'Kowalski,'" Fraser felt forced to correct, but Ray smacked him on the shoulder.

"Just a joke, Fraser. Don't worry about it. So, what's the 4-1-1, homes?"

"You know—nothing much. Making a living."

"Yeah, huh? You're looking good."

"It's the new haircut," Mikey said, gesturing at his thinning hair. "What can I do you for? Usual consulting rates apply, of course."

"Don't they always?" Ray muttered. "We're looking for a guy, Samuel Jackson, lives in the neighborhood."

"Ain't everyone? He's one hot prospect."

"Yeah? What do you got?" 

"Not much." Mikey shrugged. "Guy's plain disappeared."

"Disappeared, huh?"

"Yup."

"Like a magician."

"Just like that. Presto!" Mikey waved his fingers.

"Uh-huh."

"If I may, Ray," Fraser said, stepping forward. "Sir, I hope it's clear that we intend Mr. Jackson no harm. We think he's in danger from certain criminal elements and, if so, it's our duty to protect him."

"That's some pretty fancy talk you got there, Red. But ain't no one can protect anybody from the Outfit. Or from people who talk to people about the Outfit. So, this is me shutting up right here." Mikey pantomimed zipping his lip shut and throwing the key into the pile of junk. Dief followed the gesture with his head. 

Fraser shared a glance with Ray.

"Guess if you change your mind, you know how to find me," Ray said.

Mikey nodded.

Ray nudged Fraser, and they headed back to the car.

"Let's try Momo," Ray said as he held the seat forward for Dief. "She's always good for a little something, even if it's a weird something."

"Is this the pigeon aficionado?"

"Yeah, she's the one."

"Then I'm afraid we'll have to leave Diefenbaker in the car."

Dief whined at him, and Fraser shook his head.

"I'd believe you, if last time you hadn't tried to eat her prized racing pigeon. That German Beauty Homer was worth more than ten thousand American dollars."

Dief snorted and buried his snout under his paw. Fraser resigned himself to an afternoon of getting the cold shoulder.

Momo was on the roof of a four-story walk-up. Fraser nodded for Ray to precede him and then regretted it every step as he watched the flexing of Ray's thin hips and pert buttocks through his worn black jeans. 

"You getting out of shape, there, Frase? I can hear your breathing."

Fraser coughed. "No, ah. Obviously, since we returned from the Territories, I haven't been getting my usual work-out."

"Yeah, I know you miss slogging across the tundra like that." There was something off in Ray's voice, but they'd reached the top of the staircase and any opportunity to quiz Ray on it was lost.

"Hey, Lady M.," Ray said as together they approached the stout Japanese woman standing by the pigeon loft. She had a pigeon on each shoulder and appeared to be hand feeding a third. 

"Why if it isn't Detective Blondie and his Mountie Man."

Fraser turned to raise his eyebrows at Ray, but he avoided Fraser's eyes and strode forward. 

"How you doing, Lady M.? How're the birds? Enjoying the warmer weather?" Ray leaned in close and stared, nose-to-beak, at the white bird perched on Momo's finger. 

"Well, Pinhead here is ailing a bit—I think he ate a piece of corndog or something. I try to keep them on a wholesome diet, but he is a stubborn one."

Fraser nodded, understanding all too well. 

"Excuse me, ma'am, but we're inquiring after Mr. Samuel Jackson, an associate of yours."

Momo peered at him. "And your interest would be?"

Fraser placed his hand on his chest. "Benign in nature, I assure you, ma'am."

"Oh, you assure me. Is that what you do?" 

"Yes, ma'am," Fraser said, smiling gently. 

She seemed not at all convinced. "Well, I don't take someone's word so easy as that, pretty smiles aside." 

Fraser heard Ray snorting a little beside him. "You tell him, Momo." 

"And you!" she said, pointing at him. "I've known you going on ten years, now, and I know all your wily ways." 

"So, you know I'd never mess with you, especially about one of your peeps," Ray said, ducking his head.

She shrugged a little with her mouth, then nodded. "Yeah. You're all right, I guess—you haven't yet played me that I know of." She went back to stroking her pigeon. "You might want to have a word with Ronnie. Ronnie's pretty close with Sam and has been walking around with bad energy since Sammy left."

"Thanks, Momo. You're the best," Ray said. He reached into his pocket and offered her a bill. "For feed. Good luck in the race next week."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right. What with pigeon racing being illegal in Chicago, I probably didn't hear what I thought I heard."

"You're darned right about that," Momo said.

"It's all this water in my ears," Ray said, sticking a pinky in and pretending to shake it about. 

Fraser hid a smile as he tucked his hat on. "Ms. Momo, thank you kindly for your time and attention."

"Yeah, thanks, Momo. And you be good, Pinhead," Ray said, shaking a finger at the bird. "Stay away from them corndogs. They're nothing but bad news."

Momo chuckled, her voice low, and waved them off.

Diefenbaker waited for them back in the GTO with a noticeably disgruntled expression on his face.

"Don’t look at me like that," Fraser said. "You know racing birds are tough and stringy, anyway." 

Dief snorted in agreement and Ray laughed. "You kook."

"Do you know where we can find this Ronnie?" Fraser said as Ray started up the vehicle.

"Oh, yeah. But you might want to change out of the zoot suit, Frase," Ray said, checking him over. 

Fraser shifted uncomfortably. "The uniform is fitting for almost all occasions."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Ray muttered, and put his foot on the gas.

:::

"Ray! Ray-Ray-Ray, looking so fine as always." A very slim, very stylishly appareled person slunk toward them, hips weaving smoothly back and forth. They reached out with one golden brown hand, offering it to Ray, who took it and twirled them around in a tight dance spin before releasing them, brown eyes bright with laughter.

"You naughty boy. What have you been up to? And what have you brought Ronnie today? A present wrapped in red? You really shouldn't have." Ronnie put one hand on a hip and looked Fraser up and down.

Fraser tugged at his collar, and as usual, Ray came to his rescue.

"Ronnie, this is Fraser, my partner and a real live Mountie. Do not touch, you might muss him up. Fraser, Ronnie is one of my oldest CIs, he and I go way, way back. Like, when I was just a rookie, he kept me from a serious case of the stupids patrolling Boystown. Saved my life."

"Saved your little twink cherry, more like," Ronnie said, patting Ray's ass.

"Hey!" Ray said feelingly.

"Oh, don't pretend you didn't get mistaken for a stripper most days, walking around in that pretty cop uniform and looking all of twenty," Ronnie said, sounding far too amused.

Ray's ears turned red, and he turned to give Fraser a pleading look. Distraction seemed the best strategy, and Fraser bowed and offered his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ronnie."

"Is this guy for reals?" Ronnie raised an eyebrow before taking Fraser's hand and then unexpectedly raising it to his lips and dropping a kiss on the back.

Ray let out a laugh. "Hey, what did I say about touching?"

"Just showing my good manners," Ronnie said, winking at Fraser, who returned the smile as he stepped back. "What can I do for you two gentlemen? As you can see, I'm at your disposal—the club won't be opening for another hour, and I don't have a thing to do until then but make myself pretty."

"I'd say you already have that part down," Ray said, and Fraser felt a tug in his chest at the open admiration in Ray's voice. 

"You dog! What are you after now? Come on over here and tell Ronnie all about it." Ronnie went around the bar and pulled out three glasses.

"We're on the job, Ronnie," Ray chided.

"So?" Ronnie raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow. "Being a cop is thirsty work."

"Have to keep my head on straight; you know how it goes," Ray said apologetically. 

Ronnie sighed theatrically as he finished pouring his own drink. "How about you, sugar?" 

"I only drink at wakes and weddings," Fraser said, prompting Ronnie to cough into his glass.

"Oh, you're a dangerous one." He gave Fraser a level look. Maybe Fraser needed to work on his delivery. 

"So," Ronnie said, turning back to Ray, "no time to party. How sad. What brings you by, Ray-Ray?"

Ray leaned up against the bar, his jeans slipping down to reveal the pale skin of his lower back. Fraser's eyes found the bar top with sudden haste. 

"Well, I don't know how much you heard about the family accountant having up and quit...."

Ronnie made a noncommittal noise.

"Or how Jackson then went missing."

Ronnie shrugged.

"But the kicker is, D'Amato, Jr., who claimed never to be in the family business, suddenly starts knocking down doors and roughing people up looking for this Sammy character. You hear anything about that?"

Ronnie seesawed his hand. "Mighta-coulda. What do you care?"

"Because if Jackson's in trouble, CPD has an interest. And if D'Amato is suddenly working for the Outfit, then that's news to us, too."

"Jimmy doesn't work for the Outfit, no way. No way," Ronnie said, crossing his thin arms, his bangles jangling musically. 

"You sound certain of that," Fraser offered.

"Jimmy is a good guy. He's helped us out a couple of times. You could say he interceded." Ronnie nodded.

"Between you and the racket," Ray said.

"Like that." 

"So, he's got the connections..." 

"But he don't use 'em. They leave him alone. He's the pride of the family—went to a good school—Harvard—and he's making good for himself, all legit, and making it big in the private sector. They're damned proud of him." Ronnie finished in a rush. 

"Hmmm." Ray shared a doubtful look with Fraser. "So, what's this business with Jackson? Why's Jimmy throwing his weight around all of a sudden?"

Ronnie looked away and played with his drink. "I dunno..."

"Yeah, huh?" Ray ducked his head, trying to catch Ronnie's eyes. 

"Why don't you ask Jimmy?"

"I would if I could find him. He's being a little dodgy. So's Jackson."

"Oh, Jackson's—" Ronnie bit his lip.

"Yeah?" Ray waited, then added. "If Sammy's in trouble or in danger, you know I take care of my own, Ronnie." 

Ronnie met his eyes at that, and they shared something Fraser couldn't parse.

"Yeah, I remember, Ray." Ronnie sipped his drink. "Sammy's staying with friends—the Gibson pad—at that big ol' joint in Lakeview. The Lake Park Plaza."

"Yeah, I know the place," Ray said. "Thanks, Ronnie. We'll look out for Sammy."

Ronnie reached out and clasped Ray's wrist on the bar. "You do that, Ray. You promise me."

"I promise," Ray said, his voice as serious as Fraser had ever heard it.

Ronnie leaned over the bar and planted a kiss on Ray's lips. Not a brief one, either, and Fraser looked away from the sight, his face heating. He spun his hat between his fingers when Ray joined him, then sketched a salute at Ronnie.

"A pleasure to meet you, sir," Fraser said, the heat on his face lingering at Ronnie's knowing smile.

"Come back anytime, Mountie," Ronnie said, his grin sharpening at Ray's gruff, "Later, _Ronald_."

Evening had fallen while they were inside the bar, and Fraser flipped his hat on and pulled his gloves from his belt. Ray cleared his throat beside him, then said, a little tentative, "Yeah, so Ronnie and I go way back." He unlocked the door and let Dief out of the car. Dief gave a grateful yip and disappeared behind a bush.

"Yes, I—had a feeling." 

"A feeling." Ray's upper lip curled to the side. 

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "You seem...close."

"Yeah, we're tight." Ray blew out a gust of breath and added, "You should have seen me when I was a know-nothing rookie. I don't think I could have survived without guys like Ronnie to look out for me. He was only a little older than me in age, but way older in street years."

"I'm glad you had him to look out for you." Fraser most certainly did not let himself imagine a youthful Ray in his rookie uniform, slinking around on patrol and getting propositioned by opportunistic inhabitants of the neighborhood. 

Dief bumped up behind Fraser, gave him a sniff, and then sneezed disgustedly. 

"Not a peep to Huey or Dewey about my stripper years," Ray said, cracking open the driver-side door and jumping behind the wheel.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Fraser said, hand to his chest, and then held the seat forward for Dief. "And nothing out of you, either," he said. "Considering your romantic fiasco with that pair of huskies." 

Dief whined a self-serving justification.

"Oh-ho. You getting all up in it, Dief?" Ray said. 

"He has no self-control."

Ray started up the car and set them on the road, hunching over the wheel somewhat. "I don't know, Fraser. Seems like sometimes you can have too much self-control, you know?"

Fraser stared down at his hat. Perhaps, in light of the information incidentally revealed during their encounter with Ronnie, Fraser could agree. He would have to ponder the point.

Ray's cellular device rang, and he gestured with an elbow. "You mind grabbing that?"

"Yes, of course, Ray." Fraser reached into Ray's jacket and retrieved the phone. "This is Ray Kowalski's cellular telephone. Constable Benton Fraser at your service."

"Constable. This is Welsh. I need you and Kowalski back at the precinct checking in."

"Of course, Lieutenant. I will inform Ray."

"And don't be slow about it," Welsh added before hanging up. 

"Lieutenant Welsh has requested we return to the station house." 

"Damn it. We're so hot right now," Ray said, looking over his shoulder before executing a U-turn.

"Mmm," Fraser agreed, clearing his throat. Watching Ray muscle the GTO was stimulating, indeed. 

:::

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Welsh."

"Ah, Constable, Detective. This is Detective Paul Comey." He gestured toward a pale, oddly angular man with nicotine-stained teeth. 

"Yeah, we've met," Ray said, plopping down on the couch. "Thanks for the tip on Jackson."

"Which brings us to the purpose of this little convocation," Welsh said, pursing his lips. "Detective Comey is here for a status report." 

Ray shot Fraser a look, and he took his cue.

"Sir, we spoke to a number of Ray's confidential informants in the area and were able to track down a possible location for the accountant, Samuel Jackson. We were en route when you contacted us." 

"You already got a fix on Jackson?" Comey reminded Fraser uncomfortably of a beaver. And not a friendly beaver, either, but one that was in competition for a particularly attractive log. "Lieutenant," Comey said, his teeth jutting out, "I'd like to take the case back." 

Ray popped up off the couch. "Oh, you would, huh? And I'd like a pony dressed in silk pajamas!" 

"Hey, this was our case to begin with—" Comey said. 

"Yeah, and thanks for the early birthday present."

"—and now we're taking it back."

"Gentlemen," Welsh broke in heavily, and he aimed a lowering look at Comey. "Listen, Comey, you can't just use my guys as hunting dogs. They broke the lead, they get to follow up."

Comey's eyes bugged out. "Sir, I've been tracking D'Amato for years! I know he's dirty, and this could be my one shot to finally prove it. I don't know what Jackson has on him, but it's enough to have him getting into altercations with at least two of D'Amato, Senior's top lieutenants."

"Now, hang on just a hot second. You led me to believe that Joe, Junior roughed them up. You telling me now all he did was yell at them?"

Comey backed off a little. "The argument looked pretty damned heated. Like they would come to blows any second, if they weren't interrupted."

Ray looked suspicious, and the lieutenant stepped in with, "All right, all right. Ray, you and Fraser get on with your investigation. Find Jackson, but don't let on that you're protecting him. Maybe you can get the skinny on why D'Amato is after him."

"You mean go undercover?" Ray gave Fraser a concerned look. Puzzled, Fraser did his best to impart support. Ray shrugged his head sideways and said, "The location is in Boystown, sir."

Comey let out an obnoxious guffaw, and Welsh narrowed his eyes. "You have something useful to add, Detective?"

Comey sobered up quickly. "No, sir. Will I be looped in on the investigation?"

"When and if my detectives have the wherewithal," Welsh said severely, and Fraser could sense Ray relaxing beside him. "We need the room," Welsh added, and after a brief moment of waffling, Comey stormed out. 

"Now," Welsh said, rubbing his hands together, "let's talk about this op. Comey wants to use Jackson as his stalking horse, fine, but you two have to protect him. Because I smell something fishy." Welsh rubbed his hand over his face. "You work it clean from your end. I'll try to keep Comey off you, but if you don't produce something, Comey's boss is going to break my chops. "

"Jackson is staying at the Lake Park Plaza apartments."

Welsh whistled. "Pricey. So, what's your angle?"

Ray shrugged nonchalantly, shifting into a boxer's stance, and Fraser felt a presentiment of doom. "We can't approach him straight on or he'll bug out again. So, we grab a neighboring apartment, approach the owner, and ask if we can set up surveillance."

"And if they have a relationship with the target?"

"We tell them Jackson's life is in danger and this is a protective detail, but we don't want to tell him or he would be in more danger due to changed behavior patterns." 

"Nice," Welsh said, rich approval in his voice. "And your cover?"

Ray flicked a nervous glance Fraser's way. "All the units in the building are occupied by gay guys, mostly couples."

"I'm aware of that, Detective. I didn't just fall off the hay wagon on my way to work today."

"Yes, sir." Ray shuffled his feet. 

"So, now you're a couple. Mazel tov. Go find yourselves some new clothes, please. And a new apartment. And don't get blown." 

Ray opened his mouth, and Welsh made a face. "Forget I said that."

"Yes, sir. Already forgotten." Ray turned toward Fraser. "C'mon, Frase. Let's go get fabulous." 

Fraser raised his eyebrows and followed Ray out.

:::

After dropping Dief at the Consulate and making a quick change into their civilian clothes, Fraser found himself in the enviable position of watching Ray try on men's clothing. 

"Ray. Ray. Ray..."

"Yeah, Frase?" Ray was presently staring in the mirror as he smoothed down a pale lavender shirt with a white collar. "I look like a geek. I mean, I guess that's good, right? I don't look like a cop, anyway."

"You look good, Ray. But Ray..."

"Yeah?" Ray pulled on a pale linen jacket over the shirt. He looked so striking, Fraser was rendered momentarily speechless. "What, Frase?"

“You look…hmm.” Fraser flicked one eyebrow with a thumb. 

“Stupid, right?”

“Extraordinary.”

“Yeah?” Ray said shyly, ducking his head. “Huh. Well, the sales guy said it would go with my colors. What he meant, I dunno. My colors? I’m like, pale as a fish, is my color. If I was a paint color, I would be 'fish belly.'”

“Not at all, Ray. You are, in fact, a golden ivory, here,” Fraser gestured toward Ray’s neck, “and a lovely, rosy pink right…ah. My apologies,” Fraser said as Ray’s cheeks turned even redder.

"Nah, it's good. Greatness. So, uh, I'll get the sales guy to throw in a couple more shirts for me; how about you?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I have some reservations."

Ray's smile faded.

"I'm a little concerned about my ability to pull this off."

"Oh, yeah?" Ray sounded cautious. "Why's that?"

"I'm...I just...I—" Fraser leaned forward. Ray's eyes narrowed, but he leaned in as well, tilting his head for Fraser's whisper. "I'm terrible undercover, Ray. I'm told I have absolutely no talent for it. Ray Vecchio made me swear on his mother never to try undercover work again." 

When Fraser pulled back, Ray grinned at him, his eyes alight with excessive mirth, to Fraser's mind.

"Don't worry about it, buddy. I've got your back. All you need to do is stand there and look pretty." 

Fraser raised his eyebrows. "I assure you, I'm more than capable of doing my job, just not undercover," he said. "Perhaps I can work in the surveillance van, or—"

"Nope. We're partners, see? Red ships and green ships, that's you and me." Ray patted him on the back. "Now c'mon. Let's go find the sales guy."

Sales guy, or "Chris," as his nametag read, seemed delighted to assist Fraser into anything but what he was accustomed to wearing.

"Oh, sweetie, no," Chris said when Fraser tried to pick up a plaid flannel shirt. "The Village People don't need a lumberjack."

Ray let out a snort.

"What you need," Chris said, "is a nice, tight sweater. Maybe something in red."

"Boy, he's got your number, Benton," Ray said. "What else?"

"Well..." Chris put his finger to his pink lips. "The jeans. I'm sorry, Benton—can I call you 'Benton'?" 

"By all means," Fraser said, his voice squeaking when Chris squeezed Fraser's bicep and then hummed appreciatively.

"Jeans are fine, but I'm going to have to move the waistline down about eight inches."

"But won't my pants fall off?"

"I don't think so," Chris said, leaning to the side and eyeing Fraser's rear. "You have a pretty deep shelf in that closet." 

The sound Ray made at that was hardly dignified. Fraser gave him a discouraging look that he disregarded entirely.

"And you," Chris said, pointing at Ray. "Make him stop ironing his jeans. Honestly."

"Will do. So, sweaters and jeans—don't you have any suits for my man, here?" Ray said, playing it up by wrapping his fingers around Fraser's elbow. 

Fraser found himself leaning closer into Ray's wiry frame. Oh, but this was so dangerous. Ray might play the part of his lover, but Fraser couldn't trust himself. 

"A leather blazer, I think," Chris said, interrupting his thoughts. I have one in calfskin just in. You won't be able to keep your hands off him," he added, winking at Ray.

Fraser felt his face heat all the way up to his ears. Fortunately, Ray's attention was on the blue silk shirt Chris tossed his way, saying, "Get that on him while I find the blazer." 

"Wow. Good thing this is going on the department's budget, huh, Frase?"

Fraser cleared his throat. "Indeed." He fingered the material of the shirt Ray was holding. "This is marvelously thin; I bet you could use it to make cheese."

There was a beat of silence, and Fraser looked up to find Ray staring at him with a fond quirk to his lip. "You're just a step offsides, aren't you, Fraser?" 

"I suppose that's true enough."

"'Sall right." Ray shuffled a beat forward and back, holding the shirt up like a dance partner. "I've been dancing to that song all my life."

Fraser watched appreciatively until Ray stopped suddenly and pushed the shirt into his hands. "Come on. Try this puppy on."

Taking the bare handful of material with a mental shrug, Fraser went to the dressing room and shed his jean jacket and T-shirt. The silky material was so fine it caught against the rough calluses of Fraser's fingertips, and he felt another pang of disquiet. Undercover was not his bailiwick. 

When he returned wearing the shirt, however, the approval in Ray's eyes made him think perhaps this exercise might be worth the humiliation. 

"There you go," Chris said, appearing to thrust a leather jacket into his hands. "Oh, that is a good color on you. More of that. And something in sky blue, I think. Do I know my stuff, or what?" He disappeared again. 

"He's got talent, all right," Ray said absently, his eyes flickering from Fraser's to the jacket in his hands. "You gonna put that on, or what?"

"Right. Right, I'll just..." Fraser removed the blazer from its hanger, handing the hanger to Ray and shrugging into the jacket. He turned to see himself in the mirror. He looked disturbingly cosmopolitan, but as he met Ray's eyes, he thought that might not be such a bad thing.

"That works for you," Ray said, turning away to look at the racks. "Maybe I should find you some more sweaters."

"All right." Fraser ran his hand over the black leather. It really was very supple, a far cry softer than his riding jacket. If they hadn't left Dief back at the Consulate, he'd already be trying to get a mouthful. Fraser held out his arm instinctively for Ray to feel, and then cringed inwardly.

But Ray ran his hand down Fraser's arm. 

"You two are adorable," Chris said. "But I'm on the clock here." 

Fraser jumped a little and turned to accept the armful of sweaters and jeans Chris thrust upon him. He gave Ray a rueful look and was surprised to find Ray gazing back thoughtfully, 

This did not bode well, but Fraser turned and went back into the dressing room to change into a red sweater that was both alarmingly tight and almost the exact shade of his red serge.

It was shaping up to be the most extraordinary day.

:::

"Okay, so the way deep undercover works is, you got to have backstory," Ray said as they hauled their shopping bags to Ray's car, Chris' delighted farewells fading behind them. "What's your Benton Peabody like? You keep him close to your own story, but not too close. If you couldn't be a cop, what would you do?"

"Wildlife conservator," Fraser said promptly. He'd always thought it would make a great retirement option.

"Yeah, that's not going to fly, Frase. Not a lot of wildlife on the streets of Chicago. Try again." Ray pulled a parking ticket off his windshield and shredded it. Fraser shook his head.

"Librarian?"

"Better, better..." Ray contemplated Fraser over the roof of the car. "We'll have to find you some glasses. Make you nice and nerdy."

"What about you? What's your story, Ray?" Fraser asked.

"I'm a dance instructor, of course." Ray swung around the back of the GTO and opened the trunk, tossing his bags inside and gesturing for Fraser to do the same. "Hey, I bet that's how we met! You, the sad, lonely librarian; me, the flashy, handsome dance instructor. You were looking for a social outlet, see?" Ray held up his hands and did a few flashy steps. 

"Some human interaction," Fraser mused as he walked around to the passenger seat.

"Right." Ray shook his head. "Human interaction. Sheesh. So, you come to the studio for samba lessons, and yours truly sweeps you right off your feet."

Delighted, Fraser responded, "A likely scenario," keeping a straight face for Ray's double-take. "No doubt it was love at first sight on my part."

"Yeah. Yeah, but I played it hard to get, see, because I wasn't done playing it loose."

"You were promiscuous?"

"Heck, yeah." Ray started up the GTO and turned a tight corner, the wheel sliding smoothly between his fingers. "I was clubbing it every night, hitting the back rooms, the whole nine."

Fraser licked his lips. "But somehow I tempted you away from all that?"

"Well, yeah, Fraser. Because I was in a situation where all that sex was like eating ice cream for dinner all the time," he said earnestly.

"But that sounds...appealing," Fraser said. "Ice cream for dinner."

"But not every night," Ray said, solemn. "It's got to get gross after a while."

"I suppose," Fraser said. "It might be nice to discover that for myself, though." He thought of a time when he did get ill, quite ill, on the results of overindulgence, and sighed.

"Yeah."

They rode in silence for a bit, then Ray said, "Thanks for dragging us off script, Frase."

"I'm sorry, Ray. I seem to do that with great frequency."

"Nah, that's okay. It's kind of what I like about you. I never get bored, anyway."

"Is this part of our backstory?" 

"What? Oh. Sure, throw that in there in the mix. Like a turtle in a litter of kittens."

Fraser blinked. "And for my part, I would say a great deal of your charm is your constantly entertaining turns of phrase."

"Why, thank you, Benton."

"You're quite welcome, Ray."

:::

It had taken a few days for Ray to make contact, but he somehow convinced one of Gibson's neighbors—a man with a gray whippet—to let them "house sit" for a week or so while he went on a one-week Cinco de Mayo cruise on the department's dime. 

"You'll be fine," Ray reassured Fraser as they approached the Lake Park Plaza, Fraser wearing his clear glasses and holding his new travel bag with his undercover wardrobe contained within. He was clad in his overly tight red V-neck sweater and a pair of blue jeans that threatened to fall off his hips at any moment. Ray was wearing a gray cashmere sweater and sinfully tight black jeans and looked like, in the parlance, "sex on a stick." 

"I'm hardly confident," Fraser confessed.

"Just remember what I said."

Fraser thought back and then blushed a little. "I'm to look pretty."

"Yup. I'll handle the rest." He pulled up to the curb and they got out, Fraser gesturing to Dief to stick close. 

"Remember to be kind to this 'Archibald,' Dief," Fraser said. "He's a domestic whippet and won't be accustomed to your wild roughhousing."

Dief snorted something unkind.

"He can't very well help his pedigree," Fraser said. "Don't be prejudiced."

"Yeah, Dief," Ray said. "They can't all be mutts like us." 

"Don't encourage him," Fraser said. 

"Well, hellooo," a short, attractive brunet said as they approached the doors. "Who are you two?"

Just as promised, Ray stepped forward and took the lead. "Hi! I'm Ray, and this is Benton."

"Well, hi, there, Ray. I'm Gary." This 'Gary' made far too blatant an assessment of Ray's person, his eyes lingering on Ray's lower half for a scandalous period of time, before turning toward Fraser.

"I'm Benton. Or Ben." Fraser pushed himself forward, offering his hand and incidentally blocking Gary's view. "Ray's partner." He felt Ray's bemusement behind him and reached back to corral him with one arm.

"Hello, Ben. Are you two visiting?"

"We're here to house sit for Dennis Dixon. He's finally going on that cruise he always talked about," Ray said, picking up the script again, to Fraser's relief. He wasn't sure what had come over him.

"Dennis...Dennis. Nope, don't know him."

"He has a whippet. It's kind of a thin gray dog, on the smaller side?" Fraser said.

"Oh, right, Dennis. Sharp dresser, always in a hurry." Gary sounded amused for some reason. "Well, have fun, you two. Hope to see you around. I'm on three if you want to get together for cocktails."

"Sounds good," Ray said, already pushing Fraser through the front doors and toward the elevator. "Okay, partner, want to tell me what's up?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? What do you mean I mean? I thought you were going to hang back. All of a sudden you're going all method on me."

"What method?"

"What? Never mind. Just cough up an explanation pronto," Ray said, pushing the button to the thirteenth floor.

"I'm sorry, Ray. I guess I caught the undercover excitement. It happens to me. I should have warned you," Fraser said, shamefaced. "In the moment, I...I—"

"You go method," Ray said, sounding amused.

"If that's what you call it."

"Well, it wasn't so bad. I just could have used a little warning. Especially about the manhandling."

"I'm really very sorry, Ray."

Ray waved it away, ushering him out of the elevator. "Not a problem. Let's talk to Dixon and get situated with our gear."

Mr. Dixon turned out to be a very accommodating, if slightly persnickety, architect and "environmental spaces designer" in his thirties. He was a very attractive African American man, slender, with exceedingly fine taste in clothing and an appealing fondness for his gray whippet, Archibald. 

"Call him Archie," Dixon said, rubbing the dog's floppy ears. "My ex named him. Now, as far as his care goes, remember: only the soft organic food in the morning and meal-free kibble in the evening! No treats and no hand-feeding."

Dief made a distressed sound.

"He gets fed once in the morning and once in the evening, no snacks, so you can't leave your own dog's food out—I'm sorry."

That was definitely a whine. Fraser shushed Dief and then nodded at Dixon when he paused. "Please go on."

"He gets walks twice daily to the lakefront, and watch out to avoid sharp hazards along the way." 

"Not a problem," Fraser said equably. 

"If he gets cold, his sweater is in the closet."

"Of course," Fraser said, ignoring Dief's snicker.

"I've left the numbers of his vet, his groomer, the emergency vet—but if something comes up, call my mother in Tulsa first. She knows when Archie is faking."

Fraser nodded gamely. Both Dief and Ray were being insufferable at this point. 

"All right, then," Dixon said, a grin lighting his face. "I'm off to join the cruise! Finally! Oh, my God, living the dream. A full week of gorgeous, naked men, sunshine, and swimming pools. I've packed two boxes of Dramamine, just in case." 

"Smart guy," Ray said. "The high seas can get rough." 

"Don't you jinx me!" Dixon laughed and reached down to pat Archibald one last time. "Now, be good for poppa, and I'll bring you back a squeaker from the South Pacific."

With that, Dixon was out the door.

"I'm surprised he didn't want to know more about our operation," Fraser said.

"I think he was pretty excited about his trip. I get the feeling he doesn't get out much."

"Where should I put this?" Fraser indicated the suitcase containing their very expensive, state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. 

"Let's get it set up over there. Dixon said we could poke a hole in the back wall of that closet over there. Gibson's living room is on the other side."

Fraser nodded, and together they started pulling equipment from the bag, some dried flower petals falling from the cables as they did so. Their last stakeout, Fraser recalled, had involved a wily orchid thief. Fraser used the very quiet drill with the long bit to make a fine hole, and poked the tiny seeing-eye camera through, then placed the membrane microphones while Ray set up the monitor, recording device, and two chairs—this was all a well-coordinated routine at this point, as well as the popping of popcorn and cracking open the traditional orange sodas to toast the official beginning of their stake out. 

Ray leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, and then ooped hastily and grabbed the leg of the table when Archie bumped it with his wagging tail. 

"We better be damned careful with this equipment, Frase. Welsh would have my hide if I even scuffed it a little. It's worth my year's salary."

"Lieutenant Welsh values you greatly, Ray," Fraser said. 

Ray grinned bashfully. Fraser couldn't help but notice, as Ray took a sip of his soda and sighed, that Diefenbaker seemed to be trying to hide behind the sofa. 

"You're not afraid of Archie, are you?" Fraser asked incredulously, but the truth was slightly more ridiculous, as Archie appeared to be making advances toward Dief—subtle ones, not encroaching on Dief's space, but clear nonetheless—and Dief didn't know what to do.

"Well, just express your feelings on the matter," Fraser said when Archie went to get a drink of water. "I don't know how things are handled in your world, but it can't be that different."

"What are you babbling about?" 

"Nothing. It's Dief," Fraser said. "He doesn't want to be rude turning down Archie. You don't have to be rude, Dief. Be friendly, but firm."

"Friendly but firm," Ray said, sounding odd.

"Yes. He likes them a little sturdier. Life in the Territories can be difficult." Fraser tapped on the monitor at the annoying line of static. "I think we're good to go, Ray. Although if anyone is home, they're not in the main living room."

"Right. Right," Ray said, a little distracted by fine-tuning the equipment. 

They sat in silence for some moments while Ray fiddled with the monitor and Fraser attempted to make himself as small as possible in the tight corner by the closet so as not to brush against Ray too often. It was difficult. Ray was so very present, both in body and spirit—he practically vibrated with energy, energy Fraser wanted to partake of. At least in the car they usually had a good two feet between them. But now Fraser could smell Ray's aftershave, his unique and oddly sharp hair products—

"This is a nice place," Ray said suddenly.

"What? Oh, yes. Very pleasant. The toilet is amazing."

Ray gave him an odd look. "They have a pool, you know, and a sauna—maybe that's where Jackson is." 

"Hmm."

"We can have Sandor bring us some swim trunks," Ray said, completely destroying Fraser's remaining composure.

"Yes, ah. Absolutely," Fraser said. His collar was shrinking by the second. 

"Coolness. I'll go make the call. You keep an eye out for those guys."

"Will do, Ray!" Fraser gave a little salute and then buried his face in his hands a moment later after Ray disappeared into the kitchen. Good lord, there wasn't a chance in hell Fraser was going to survive this assignment with his dignity intact.

:::

After two hours with no sign of Jackson or the apartment owner, Ray's informant friend, Sandor, arrived carrying various pairs of swim trunks secreted in a couple of pizza boxes. Also, a pizza with extra cheese.

"Where's the pineapple?" Ray said. "Still no pineapple?"

"Nobody tells Tony what to put on his pizza," Sandor said with a shrug. "He said if the KGB can't, po-po sure ain't gonna."

"Get outta here," Ray growled, but Fraser saw him stuff a handful of bills into Sandor's hand before shoving him out the door.

"The pizza is still very good, Ray."

"Shaddup, you. We already established you've got no taste at all. Or you want some pemmican on that?"

"No, thank you, Ray."

"Uh-huh." Ray flashed him a triumphant grin and bit into his pizza. Fraser's tongue flicked out as he observed the pizza grease slicking Ray's lips. Ray frowned. "Aren't you going to dig in, Fraser?"

"Oh, right; yes," Fraser said, and picked up a piece for himself. With the extra cheese, it was a battle to finish eating the slice before the oil slid down his hand and sullied his brand-new sweater. He really should have changed into something less expensive. What he wouldn't give for one of his old flannel shirts idling away back at the Consulate. Or just the comforting anonymity of his red serge. He reached for a handful of napkins and placed them over his lap. 

"Don't load up too much; we're heading down to the sauna," Ray said. "Don't want you to upchuck on me, Frase."

"No, we can't have that." 

They shared a humorous look before Ray seemed to shy away, his nervous energy once again taking over. "Well, pitter-patter—let's get into it, partner."

"Right you are, Ray." Fraser stood and picked up the pizza box that held his swimming trunks. He couldn't quite suppress the flush that heated his face, so he turned swiftly. "I'll just change in the bedroom."

"Modest Mountie," Ray teased, his tone fond.

Fraser went to the bedroom and removed the too-tight sweater and low-riding jeans. The first pair of trunks were a bit garish with a sky-blue zig-zag pattern over black. Fraser shook his head and looked back in the pizza box. There was another pair, this one in plain black, but they were a little abbreviated. At least they were loose enough, if a bit short, and the liner granted him some modesty. 

That modesty was put to the test when he left the room and found Ray lounging on surveillance in a pair of bright red bathing shorts and nothing else, his bare feet propped up on Fraser's chair. He had one hand dug into the ruff of Dief's fur and was scratching him. The look on Dief's face was pure bliss.

Fraser almost turned an about-face and went straight back in his room. He wasn't sure he could face a half-naked Ray Kowalski. If he were a Mountie of stronger constitution, perhaps. Craig 'Spitfire' Mahoney was said to have battled three wolverines at once while simultaneously applying a tourniquet to his own arterial leg wound. 

Fraser shook his head. "I'm no Spitfire Mahoney," he said under his breath, and grabbed a black robe he saw hanging over the back of the couch. "Robe, Ray?"

"What?" Ray looked up at him. "Quiet, Fraser. We're just getting to the good part."

"The good—what on Earth are you—" Fraser joined Ray, who lifted his legs up and then placed them back down on Fraser's lap as he sat down. Fraser froze momentarily, wordless, blind at the sensation of Ray's skin, Ray's calves touching Fraser's bare thighs.

"Ray. There's nothing to see, Ray," Fraser said. The screen still showed an empty living room.

"Gotcha!" Ray snorted with laughter. "Man, you are easy," he said.

"You have no idea," Fraser said under his breath. "Robe, Ray?"

"Oh, yeah. Thanks." Ray got up and shrugged on the robe, a silky black affair that served only to highlight the tanned V of skin exposed below his collar bones. The robe moved smoothly with Ray's lithe form as he bent to pick up his keys and wallet and drop them in his pocket. Fraser retrieved his librarian glasses from where he'd carefully placed them out of harm's way before starting with the drilling. He put them on and then grabbed the spare towel and slung it around his neck before turning toward Ray.

Ray stared at him, and Fraser adjusted the glasses self-consciously, wishing he had his hat. 

"Shall we?" The towel hid Fraser's blush very effectively. 

"Uh, yeah," Ray said, and preceded him out the door, his own towel clenched in his hand. 

"Stay here, Dief. We'll take you and Archie to the park when we get back," Fraser said, and closed the door on Dief's forlorn expression.

As they left the elevator in the sublevel where the gym and steam rooms were located, Ray stepped closer to Fraser and linked arms with him. Fraser was momentarily startled—too focused on controlling his reaction to Ray's near nudity, he'd almost forgotten his undercover role. Unconscionable. He gave himself a stern talking to and patted Ray's hand just as they approached two gentlemen leaving the gym. 

"Hi there," the first one, a tall, slender brunet said, smiling at Ray. 

The second nodded at Fraser. "I don’t think we've seen you around. I'm Brent and this is my partner, Agapito." 

"Hey, guys. I'm Ray, and this is my partner, Benton." Ray pulled Fraser closer momentarily, and Fraser quickly threw in, "Pleasure to meet you both."

"Are you staying here at the Plaza?"

"Yes. We're dog sitting for Dennis Dixon."

"Oh, Dennis. Lucky him. I hear he's gone to the South Pacific."

Ray shared a glance with Fraser. "Word sure gets around."

"Honey, he's been planning this trip ever since he learned you could pay good money to watch pretty boys pee in a pool." 

"Oh, meow," Brent said. 

"Well, we're on our way to the sauna," Fraser said, rubbing his hands together.

"Right. We should skedaddle. Catch you later, Brent, Agapito," Ray said, tugging Fraser along quickly, but not quite fast enough to fail to catch Agapito saying, "Lord. Did you see the cheekbones on the blond?" and Brent replying, "Don't tell me you missed the walk-away on the brunet. You could bounce a roll of quarters off that ass."

Ray chuckled, and Fraser blushed and ducked his face into the folds of his towel.

"I'll have to keep that in mind," Ray said. "In case I ever have a roll of quarters."

"Honestly, Ray." 

"I'm just saying! Things get kind of boring around the squad room."

"You're incorrigible." But Fraser couldn't quite control the smile that slipped free, and considering Ray's delighted grin, he was glad. 

Together, they pushed through the double doors to the locker room, where they slipped out of their shoes and stowed their personal items in a locker, using a quarter to obtain the key. Then they proceeded to the sauna proper.

The room was hexagonal with a door to the rear that, from the sound of it, led to some showers. There were some voices coming from that direction along with the patter of running water. 

"Could be Jackson is in the showers," Ray said under his breath. "Keep an eye out."

"We don't know what he looks like," Fraser said pointedly. The man's driver's license photo was of extremely poor quality. 

Ray slipped off his robe and laid it on the second tier of seats by the door, so Fraser joined him on his own towel close by. The steam was heavy, regulated by some unseen mechanism; unlike the sweat lodges of his youth, there was nothing to do but sit back and take the steam and contemplate the folly of his own thoughts.  
Fraser was doing just that, trying to keep his eyes off Ray's slick, pale skin, and how the drops of sweat were traveling down the knots of his spine, when he heard raised voices coming from the shower room. He raised his finger to his lips.

"Come on, Sammy. You've got to quit sulking—"

"Oh, yeah? You try dumping your entire life and going on the run without even a toothbrush!" 

"I told you, baby, I'll buy you a fresh toothbrush."

"That's not the point, Max. My whole life could be over."

"Don't you think you're jumping the gun maybe a little?" Their voices got louder and more resonant, and Fraser tapped Ray on the arm. 

Ray moved closer on the bench and leaned against Fraser, almost draping himself over him. Fraser had to hold in a shudder as Ray's warm, slick skin slid against his. The scent of him in his nose was...intoxicating.

"I have to get ready in case—" Jackson, Fraser assumed, entered the steam room first, only to have Gibson elbow him into silence and blurt out a hearty, "Hey, guys, what's happening?"

"Steam's great," Ray said lazily, going even more boneless against Fraser. "Come on over and chill." 

"Don’t mind if we do." Gibson, a big, potbellied fellow with a deep brown complexion and an abundance of body hair, guided the slimmer Jackson over to a bench opposite them to sit down. Jackson was a short, willowy man with tawny skin and a mop of fine black hair. He looked not at all happy with the world at large, but he sprawled next to Gibson with his towel tucked loosely around his waist. Gibson pulled a second towel from around his neck and sighed before regarding them. 

"You guys new to the building?"

"We're just dog sitting for Dennis Dixon a couple of days," Ray said casually. "Nice guy. Weird dog." 

"Now, Ray," Fraser said. "Archie descended from greyhounds. Whippets are popular racing dogs, you know."

"The dog needs a sweater to live, Benton. A sweater."

Jackson giggled. 

"I mean, shouldn't it have its own fur? Doesn't that come standard?"

Jackson continued laughing, and Gibson smiled, obviously pleased for his friend's improved mood. 

"I think his sweater is very becoming," Fraser said, to continue the farce. 

"Of course you do," Ray said. "You used to have the same one! That Aran sweater of yours I had to chuck out when you weren't looking."

"You! You what? I—" 

"I had to do it, Benton," Ray said solemnly. "It was being held together by threads and holes, and mostly holes by the end, there."

Fraser feared Jackson might burst a seam of his own laughing, so he didn't respond any further. But he determined to check his wardrobe first thing for his Aran sweater when he returned to his apartment.

"Man, you should get him for that. Ain't no one should mess with a guy's favorite sweater," Jackson said.

Fraser nodded and folded his arms. 

Gibson leaned forward. "Say, are you guys busy tonight? Want to come over for dinner?"

Fraser shared a quick glance with Ray. He saw in an instant they were in accord—the opportunity to observe and protect Jackson at close range was ideal.

"Sounds lovely," Fraser said, and Ray nodded. "We'll come on by, thanks."

Gibson reached over and patted Jackson's knee. "It'll be great to have some fresh blood around the place. Come by around six. I'm in 1310, right next door to Dixon." 

"You got it," Ray said, sketching a salute before tilting his head back. 

Gibson and Jackson departed soon afterward. As soon as they left, Ray leaned closer to Fraser for a discussion. The steam was getting to Fraser, or maybe it was all of Ray's flushed, glistening skin out on display, but he found himself blurting out his concerns about playing a couple under such close scrutiny. 

"We didn't prepare much, after all," Fraser said nervously. "They're bound to realize we're not in a relationship."

"Are you kidding?" Ray said and he closed his fingers around Fraser's wrist. "You, me, we got a partnership, Frase. And there's no ships like partnerships, right?" He shook Fraser's wrist a little, his blue-green eyes boring into Fraser's. 

Fraser wet his lower lip. "A-affirmative, Ray."

Ray nodded decisively and sat back. "I got you a little something to help out. It's back in the room."

"Oh?" Fraser wondered what it could possibly be.

"Yeah." Ray's lips quirked in a small grin, and Fraser—oh, Fraser wanted so desperately in that moment to kiss the edges of that smile, to taste Ray's lips—

"You falling asleep there, buddy? We better get going."

"Right you are!" Fraser said, and jumped to his feet, making sure his towel was held in front of him. "I'll just get our things," he said, waving the key, and led the way out.

Ray mumbled something behind him, but for once Fraser's hearing was mercifully dull. 

:::

While Ray took the first shower, Fraser fed the dogs and then took them out for a walk to the lakefront, Archie leading the way.

Dief had some caustic words about being cooped up with an anorexic show-dog who only wanted to cuddle him for his body warmth. Fraser told him to be firm with his boundaries until the case was over. Archie kept giving them quizzical looks as they talked, so Fraser wasn't sure how much he understood of the conversation.

They made a quick stop at a liquor store on the way back. When they returned to the apartment, the shower was free, so Fraser went to the bedroom to gather clean clothing to take to the bathroom. There, laid out on the bed, was a red plaid flannel shirt. One of his own, to be precise.

"Ray?" Fraser called out. "Did you bring one of my flannel shirts?"

"Yup," Ray said right behind him. Fraser turned and shook his head at Ray's outrageous grin. 

"I thought—"

"Just be yourself," Ray said, that same intensity back in his voice. "And...look pretty." He winked at Fraser and backed away.

He winked.

Fraser swallowed and looked down at his bag. As improbable as it seemed, it looked like Ray wished to—he appeared to be flirting. With Fraser. 

Fraser picked out a pair of his new jeans, a white undershirt, a pair of his starched boxers, and his flannel shirt and went to take a shower.

:::

"Call me Max," Gibson said, accepting the bottle of wine Fraser offered. "Interesting," he said, looking at the label. "I don't know much about Canadian wine." 

"It's mostly produced in BC—British Columbia—and Ontario. This is ice wine, one of our more popular products. A sweet dessert wine."

"Well, thanks, Benton," Max said, taking his shoulder and drawing him into the living room. It was interesting seeing it from this perspective, as opposed to the black and white monitor of their surveillance camera. "Mind putting this in the kitchen, Sammy?"

"Yeah, sure. Can I get you guys something to drink? Glass of wine?"

"Beer would be great," Ray said, and Fraser tilted his head in question, "Coffee?"

"I think we can manage that," Max said. "Come on, you two, quite hovering."

Ray tugged him to sit close on the overstuffed sofa—almost uncomfortably close, so that Ray was forced to use Fraser's thigh as an armrest. Not that Fraser minded, terribly, and seeing the fond way Max regarded them, it certainly wasn't a bad move on Ray's part.

Then, of course, Fraser remembered Ray's instruction. What would he do if he could be himself, for once? 

"...two left feet, this guy, I swear, but I'm making progress with him. He's almost got the salsa down," Ray was saying, nudging Fraser and interrupting his musing. 

"How are you enjoying that?" Max asked Fraser.

"What? Oh, the dancing? Very well, as long as Ray's involved." Fraser freed his arm from between them and curled it over Ray's shoulders. He felt Ray's momentary tension, and then Ray curled into him, fitting himself to Fraser like a missing piece.

A throb of inchoate, fragile longing lodged in Fraser's throat, leaving him speechless.

"Here we go," Sammy said, approaching with a trayful of drinks. Thankfully, he started by handing Max some sort of cocktail, then placing his own drink in the empty space beside him, so by the time he offered Fraser his coffee, he'd regained his composure.

"Wasn’t sure if you wanted cream and sugar," Sammy said, putting it on the glass coffee table at his knees. 

"Black is fine. Thanks."

"Your Anchor Steam."

"Terrific, thanks," Ray said, seeming reluctant to reach for his beer. 

Sammy sat down and picked up his drink. "When did you two fellas meet?" 

Ray replied. "Two years ago. I was just telling Max about it." 

"Cute story," Max said. He turned toward Fraser. "Just like high school—getting the hots for teacher." His brown eyes twinkled.

Fraser tried to rub a thumb over his eyebrow and bumped into his glasses. "Yes, well. We waited until I completed the class, of course." He tried to recall the background they'd established. "It's lonely work sometimes, being a librarian, and I didn't have much of a social life back then."

Sammy made a scoffing noise.

"No, really. Work, more work, then home. My w-dog was my only companion. I'd...well, I'd had a relationship a couple of years ago that ended...badly. It was like a storm blew through me and froze what was left of my heart. And then I met this extraordinary man—" Fraser turned his head to find Ray staring at him, eyes wide. Fraser cleared his throat. "On the day I met him, my home had just burned down—"

"Oh, my goodness," Max said, sounding enthralled.

Fraser nodded. "I walked into the st-studio and Ray—a complete stranger—for some reason came right up to me and embraced me. He embraced me, and warmth returned to my world."

Ray made a small sound.

"I don't know how he knew how desperately I needed it at that moment, but ever since then..." Fraser shrugged.

"Hey, maybe I'm the one who needed it," Ray said, his voice hoarse, and he reached across their laps to take Fraser's hand.

"Wow. Wow, wow, wow," Sammy said. "What a great story."

"What about you two?" Ray said. "How did you guys—"

"Oh, no. No-no-no," Sammy said, over Max's, "We're not together. I'm sorry if you misunderstood."

Fraser had had a feeling they weren't a couple, but he couldn't put his finger on why. Perhaps the paternal nature of Max's affection.

"No, I'm just staying with Max for a little while," Sammy said. "Temporarily out of a job." 

Max nodded.

"Also, I have a guy. Greatest guy there is," Sammy said dreamily, and for some reason, Max gave him a quelling look. "What?" Sammy said, laughing a little. "You think these two are undercover for the Outfit?" He nodded pointedly at the way Fraser and Ray were sitting tightly together, hands clasped.

It took every ounce of will Fraser had not to flinch at the word 'undercover.' Ray, of course, had no such difficulties, saying, smoothly "Outfit? You mean, like, the Mob?"

"He doesn't mean anything," Max said. "He's a stupid young man who has done a stupid thing."

"Falling in love isn't stupid."

"This isn't Romeo and Juliet," Max said gruffly. "And if it were, I remind you that story ended pretty damned poorly."

Ray's hand tightened warningly in Fraser's, as if he could sense the eager question Fraser was about to ask. Fraser deflated with an inward sigh.

"Well, I hope you two kids have a happy ending," Ray said. "Max, can't help but notice you've been asking all the questions. What about you? What do you do?"

"I'm a professor of statistics and chair at the University of Chicago," Max said, a little smugly.

"Whoooey." Ray made a show of blowing on his fingertips. "Pay nice?"

"Adequate. Adequate." 

"I'll bet."

"That's how we met," Sammy put in eagerly. "Max was my professor."

"Ah. Definitely a hot for teacher situation," Fraser said. 

Sammy made a face, and Max laughed. "It would surprise me if Sammy could ever stop talking long enough to 'get busy' with anyone."

"Jesus. Who declared it Pick on Sammy Day?" Sammy crossed his arms. "If Jay were here he'd give you a mouthful."

"Sammy!" Max said curtly.

Sammy bowed his head, cowed.

"I apologize. I didn't mean to pick on you, Sammy," Fraser said. 

"Me, too. I think my blood sugar's getting low—"

"Then by all means, let's retire to the dining room," Max said, sounding relieved. 

Dinner was a simple but tasty boeuf bourguignon served over fresh pasta with grilled asparagus on the side. Everyone appeared to be too busy eating to speak. Ray sat across from Fraser, affording him an excellent view of Ray's lavender shirt with the white collar and his smart, silvery jacket, both of which became him so well they almost distracted Fraser entirely from the tasty fare. 

It didn't help that Ray kept giving Fraser deeply intense looks, his eyes crinkling at the corners, as if Fraser had done something or said something especially...oh God. He'd finally revealed the secret of the hug. Now it would rise up like an ice weasel to bite him on the ankle. Just as he'd always suspected it would. Suddenly the tasty meal sat like a lump of coal in his gut.

Ray raised his eyebrows in concern, and Fraser settled his expression, nodding slightly. This didn't seem to reassure Ray, but Max distracted him with a question about which musicians he preferred for teaching his classes, and Fraser turned to chat with Sammy about accounting, a topic that, sadly, didn't much interest him. 

After dinner, Max brought out the ice wine and served it with some chocolate mousse. Fraser watched Ray's eyes close with pleasure and had to focus on his own plate. 

"Great choice, Benton. Thanks for plugging me in," Max said, gesturing toward the wine bottle. 

"My pleasure."

"Man," Ray said, yawning. "I'm stuffed. This was super, guys. Thanks."

"Yes. Thank you for the marvelous meal, Max." 

"Anytime. Any friend of Dennis' is a friend of mine," Max said graciously. Fraser felt a twinge of guilt over their deception. Max was clearly a decent fellow, as was Sammy. And yes, they were here to protect him, but they were also using him as bait for D'Amato, Jr. Being undercover really wasn't Fraser's cup of tea.

Sammy yawned as well, and Fraser nodded toward him. "Looks like we're overstaying." He stood, and Ray did as well. "Thank you both for the marvelous food and company."

"I'll walk you out," Max said. "And let's do this again sometime."

"Next time it's on us," Ray said, and Fraser nodded.

"See you," Sammy said, waving. 

Max saw them out, and they hurried down the hall to Dixon's apartment.

"Okay, wow," Ray whispered as he shucked his jacket. "I know we're on the case here, but I have to ask: how much of that story was you being you, and how much was—"

"Did you notice Sammy said his boyfriend's name was 'Jay'?" Fraser dropped his flannel shirt on the back of the chair and situated himself in front of the surveillance equipment. 

Ray glared. "Yeah. So?" He sat down next to Fraser and picked up his headphones. 

"'J' as in possibly the first initial for—"

Ray turned to face him fully. "You know what? I don't care. Fraser—" 

A loud knock interrupted him. Fraser could hear it both through the speakers and coming from the hallway. They both hurried to put on their headsets. Moments later, Max entered the video frame and looked through the spyhole before opening the door. 

"Jimmy. Good to see you," he said, and embraced the burly, dark-haired man who entered. 

"Holy shit," Ray whispered.

"James D'Amato," Fraser affirmed.

"Jay!" Sammy yelled as he ran into the room and hurled himself into the man's arms. 

Ray shot Fraser a disbelieving look. "So, I guess him killing Sammy is off the table."

"Way off." Fraser checked the recording device and confirmed it was still running, the levels bouncing with the rise and fall of the voices in the room.

Ray mused softly, "So I wonder why the hell—"

"You said twenty-four hours," Sammy said, punching D'Amato in the shoulder. "It's been four days, Jay. I've been going stir-crazy here worrying if those guys were going to hurt you."

"Aw, sweetheart. They wouldn't hurt me. I'm family." D'Amato curled his arm around Sammy and pulled him down onto the couch. Max sat opposite them. It was difficult to pin down facial expressions through the fuzzy surveillance image, but it appeared as if Max's concerns weren't assuaged by D'Amato's laid-back reassurance.

"I'd appreciate a few more details."

"Yeah, me, too," Ray said sarcastically. 

Fraser shushed him.

"Well, I told Accardo that just 'cause brother Carlo got himself killed in that stupid motorcycle accident didn't mean I was going to give up the plan—eight years of school, me being clean and handling the legit side of the family business, that was the plan, and truth is, there was a reason poppa sent me to boarding school in the first place. He knew about me. And he loved me in spite of it. But I wasn't going to say that to Accardo. He's old school and hates us 'finocchio' as he calls us." 

"Yeah, yeah," Sammy said. "Heard enough of his bullshit whenever he'd visit the club, the shithead. Here we were making money hand over fist, and he'd come to collect it and give us his shit attitude."

D'Amato gave Sammy a comforting squeeze. "It'll be a while before he gives anyone any kind of anything. When poppa's old friend, Tony Ricca, somehow found out Accardo was threatening you to try to push me into that side of the biz, Ricca broke his jaw. Among other things."

"Oh, shit." Sammy covered his mouth.

Max crossed his arms, a broad grin on his face.

Ray chuckled and leaned his forehead against Fraser's shoulder. "Holy shit. Comey's going to be so pissed."

Fraser realized the implications and grinned. Comey had no case. Sammy was innocent of wrongdoing, as was D'Amato. Comey had wasted countless division hours on the case, up to enlisting help from the 27th, based solely on his hunch D'Amato was dirty.

No, the only thing D'Amato was hiding was his love. And only because the Outfit didn't approve.

Fraser sighed. 

"What?" Ray leaned close to whisper, and his breath brushed Fraser's cheek. Fraser shivered. 

"Well, it's quite romantic, isn’t it? D'Amato not backing down despite the pressure from the organization; Samuel hiding out, waiting for word from his lover, more anxious every day. And then, of course, we poke our noses in, only to discover we aren't needed after all. James has resolved the issue relatively peacefully and won freedom for himself and his lover."

Ray grinned widely at him. "And the sick puppy who threatened them has to eat through a straw for the next six weeks," he said with great satisfaction, snapping off the monitor and shutting down the recorder.

"Indeed," Fraser said, smiling in return. "No more than he deserves."

"Huh. Well, that strikes out one reason I thought you were being squirrelly." 

"Squirrelly? I'm not—" Fraser eyed the door, but he was trapped next to the closet, Ray having taken the outside chair, whether intentionally or not. "I don't know what you're speaking of."

"What I'm saying is, and here's what I've been thinking." Ray looked down and worried at the cuffs of his shirt. He chewed his lip before saying, "I thought you were having a freak-out about me being bi. 'Cause ever since you saw me kiss Ronnie you've been blowing hot and cold."

"You thought I disapproved?" Fraser held a hand to his chest. "Oh, no. No, Ray. I was...very grateful to learn—to hope—I just couldn't be sure if you were..." 

Ray perked up. "So, that story you told the guys...about me hugging you. How much of it was truth?"

Fraser felt heat rush to his neck, making his ears tingle. The ice weasel cometh. "All of it."

"Yeah?" Ray had wormed close again, his knees knocking against Fraser's. 

"Yes...for God's sake, Ray, I touched your inner thigh the day we met."

"Huh. Well, not to question your timing, but we were kind of busy getting blown up."

"True, true. And yet..." Fraser rested his hand on Ray's knee, more confident now he wouldn't be rejected. Ray's hand dropped over his. "For as long as that, Ray."

"Go figure," Ray said, his face creasing in an enormous grin. "You dumb Canuck."

"I have to object. Canucks are French Canadians, centered mostly in Quebec, and my family hails from Inuvik in the Arctic Cir—mmmph." Ray's lips were warm and smooth and still smiling as they stopped Fraser's babbling. Perhaps it was just as well, because standing on the precipice for so long had his feet tingling, his ears burning, and his heart pounding like the Canadian drum corps. Fraser was grateful, once again, that when he failed in his resolve, Ray was there to pick up the slack. Even if, Fraser noted, Ray's fingers were trembling as they clutched Fraser's.

"My French isn't even very good," Fraser finished weakly as they pulled apart, and Ray snorted, sounding relieved. "Yours is better," Fraser joked. Apparently, Ray's lips had loosened Fraser's own.

"Mmm," Ray said, proving it again with a smile. Fraser followed the movement of his tantalizing lips, startling a little when Ray's fingers brushed over his bare shoulder. He could feel his nipples rising to attention, along with other parts of his body.

Dief chose that moment to come trotting into the living room, and he immediately whined something rude and ran out again.

"Smart wolf," Fraser muttered, leaning to kiss Ray's neck. He discovered a particularly sensitive area just below Ray's ear that made him groan softly and clutch at Fraser's shoulder. 

Ray stood up suddenly and slid astride Fraser's legs, making it both more comfortable to kiss him and less comfortable in Fraser's too-tight jeans.

"Oh. Goodness," Fraser said, wrapping both arms around Ray's waist. Ray hummed in agreement and pulled his glasses off.

"These have been driving me crazy," he said, and tossed them onto the table before bending over Fraser to kiss him deeply and rock against him. Ray's excitement was noticeable; Fraser could feel the hard ridge of Ray's erection pushing against him, and he couldn't resist reaching between them to touch it for himself, to rub the back of his hand against Ray's cock. 

"Fuck it," Ray said, and leaned back to impatiently yank open his shiny slacks. "Touch me, Fraser. You have no freaking clue how long I've wanted this."

"You're certainly right about that," Fraser said. 

"Yeah, well. You're dumb. I've been making eyes at you for a while now."

Fraser paused his exploration of Ray's unusual boxers long enough to frown into Ray's flustered face. 

"Seriously?" 

"Yes, you big, stupid Mountie."

"You might have said something."

"And send you screaming back to Canada?"

"I'd never—Ray, you have to know I—"

"Doesn’t matter—mind if we continue with the sexual hijinks?"

"Of course, of course. But honestly, Ray...the Canadian flag?"

Ray looked down at the pattern on his boxers, his face flushed attractively. "It was for luck."

"I'd say the luck was mine," Fraser said, and lifted the waistband carefully over Ray's gorgeous cock. The head peeping from his foreskin was a deep, rosy hue, and as Fraser gripped it in his fist, a bubble of pre-come seeped out and ran down over his fingers. Fraser lifted them to taste, licking them clean.

Ray groaned softly. "Gotta taste everything, don't you. Just have to stick that tongue out..." 

Ah. Fraser took Ray's hand and sucked Ray's index and middle fingers into his mouth. 

"Jesus Christ, Benton."

Fraser continue to suck while he wrapped his wet fingers around Ray's cock and stroked, pushing the foreskin over his crown, thumb rubbing deeply under the head. 

Ray threw his head back and groaned, and Fraser almost relinquished his fingers to bite that beautiful, long neck. But Ray seemed to be enjoying his mouth too much. Next time, Fraser promised himself. Next time he would use his tongue to every advantage. This time, he simply enjoyed the sight of Ray flushing and riding his hand while Fraser sucked his fingers and kissed his palm. He coaxed Ray with his touch, the moment suspending in anticipation, until finally Ray groaned loudly and his eyes opened to be captured by Fraser's while he eased him through his climax. 

The throbbing in his own groin was so intense at this point, that Fraser feared it would take very little to set him off in turn. So, when Ray lifted his head and, with an evil grin, slithered to his knees, Fraser almost came at the very sight.

"Ray. Ray, Ray, Ray, you needn't—"

"Oh, I need to, I really do."

"No, but, please be careful—"

"Oh, yeah? You gonna lose it, Benton-buddy? You got no stamina, that it?" 

Fraser narrowed his eyes.

"Because if that's the case..." Ray slid his hands up Fraser's thighs, and Fraser shuddered. "I could just stop right here; let you cool down some."

Fraser leaned back. "No, no. By all means, continue."

Ray unzipped Fraser's too-tight jeans. Fraser held back a sigh of utter relief, but Ray seemed to hear it anyway, because he smiled a shark's smile and leaned forward, urging Fraser to lift up so he could tug down his pants and wilted boxers. 

Feeling exposed and excited, Fraser sat and let Ray nudge him around until he was slouched down and positioned for whatever Ray wanted. And what Ray wanted, apparently, was to pet Fraser's balls and take his aching, hard cock deep into his greedy mouth. 

"Oh, God, Ray. Please, I—" Fraser panted for control. "You win. You win." 

Ray rumbled a chuckle that Fraser could feel in his gut. It was only with a supreme effort he didn't climax immediately. But he didn't want to give up this experience so soon—not Ray's beautiful mouth, not his brilliant hands playing with Fraser's balls or teasing behind them. Fraser spread his legs and caressed Ray's beautiful, experimental hair and begged for strength.

But then Ray made a slick, sucking movement with his tongue, slurping crudely while he stared up at Fraser with his clear, adoring eyes, and Fraser orgasmed helplessly, Ray's name on his lips.

When he returned to some semblance of sanity, Ray was swiping his sleeve across his mouth and settling back into Fraser's lap, a smug expression dancing across his face. 

Fraser blinked. "Well, I'd say you're far better at that than Steve, my roommate at depot."

"Yeah, huh? Should I be jealous of this guy?" Ray mock growled. 

"Alas, no. Tragically, Steve was killed in an incident involving an avalanche and a pair of amorous caribou."

"No way."

"Yes way, I'm afraid. They offered to grant me bereavement leave but I felt strong enough to continue with the term."

"Tough guy, huh?" 

"I wasn't too terribly attached, you see, as I didn't consider him true Mountie material."

Ray started chuckling and leaned his forehead against Fraser's shoulder. "I'm glad you weren't too traumatized, buddy." 

"I was pretty young." Fraser nuzzled Ray's ear, awed he had permission to do so. Yet it now felt so natural. 

"So, do we need to talk about this," Ray said, "or can we just go to bed and take a nap? I vote for option B."

"Don't we have to report in to Lieutenant Welsh?"

"Nap first; report later," Ray said, yawning. "Comey isn't going anywhere, and there's no case, remember?"

"Ah. Just young love."

"Just young love," Ray said, gazing at Fraser, and Fraser smiled softly.

"Yes. Ain't it grand?"

:::

_Epilogue_

 

"So, you see, Lieutenant, Mr. D'Amato presents no threat to Mr. Jackson, and, in fact, is not involved with The Outfit except through a parental tie. He had to exert pressure to stay free of The Outfit's business dealings—that's what the dispute was about that Detective Comey observed."

"No shit. Comey had us wasting department resources chasing our tails?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Yeah. This case was no case," Ray put in.

The lieutenant rubbed his hands together with glee. "Oh, Wienhausen is going to crap his pants," he said. "This is all going on his budget, and with no payoff to justify the expense." Welsh swiftly put on a solemn expression. "Good work, you two. Take the weekend. Undercover work is a tough beat."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Ray said and grabbed Fraser by the arm. Together they hightailed it out of Welsh's office just an instant ahead of Ray's giddy laughter. "Toughest beat ever." 

"Yes, Ray."

"And we still have to house sit the rest of the week."

"Hmm."

"Nothing but pools and saunas and free meals on Welsh."

"A cop's life can be very difficult," Fraser lamented. "But somehow, we endure."

 

...................................................  
July 5, 2018  
San Francisco, CA

**Author's Note:**

> HERE IS A WHIPPET IN A SWEATER:  
>   
> (from https://www.thetrendywhippet.co.uk/product/grey-fluffy-fleece-whippet-jumper)  
> 


End file.
